Tabula Rasa
by Bleu Tsuki
Summary: AU. Harry is hit by an unknown curse during the Final Battle. The effect is a timed Obliviation every 24 hours. No Pairings. Please Review! It's a 3-shot!
1. Part 1

**Summary: **Harry is hit by an unknown curse during the Final Battle. The effect is a timed Obliviation every 24 hours.

**Author's Note:** This is Dark. A one-shot told in two parts.

I had this idea flitting around in my mind for a while. I'm still playing with the second half, but please let me know what you think!

**No Pairings. **

**Tabula Rasa-** "Something existing in its original or pristine state, used especially of the mind before impressions are recorded as a result of experience" (Sadlier Vocab Book)

* * *

**TABULA RASA**

They came in every day. They came in every day at 7, so that they'd be there when he woke. Sometimes they'd walk in too late, and Harry would already be drenched in sweat, shouting for mercy from a tormentor unknown. Sometimes he'd wake up just fine and give them a dazed smile that brought them to tears. Sometimes he didn't wake at all.

...

"Ready?" Ron asks, looking concernedly at his girlfriend. Hermione nods, blinking away tears.

"I'll never be ready, you know this, Ron."

"Yeah. I do know."

Ron pushes the door open to the little isolated ward where Harry is just waking up, dazed and confused.

"Who?" he asks, blinking in confusion. He looks wildly around for his glasses and when he finds them on the bedside table, he jams them on his face, ready to run out of bed. "Wha-?"

"Shhshhh..." Hermione soothes. "Just relax."

"NO! WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?" Harry shouts, scrambling away from them where he promptly curls up in a ball. "Get the Fuck away from me!"

Hermione looks pained. A shadow crosses her eyes, but she doesn't cry, not yet.

"Harry, Harry, it's your friend. Hermione. And your friend Ron." Hermione tells him quietly, in that same soothing voice.

"I have no friends!" Harry protests. "I've never seen you before!"

They expect this, for he says it every day, but it still doesn't stop the shudders that run through his best friends. Ron takes a shaky breath and touches Hermione's arm to calm her.

"Harry, mate. You can trust us." Ron whispers hoarsely. "I can prove it." He puts his book bag on the ground and extracts the photo album Hagrid had given him. It is the one thing they know of that can jog his memory. "Here. These are your parents."

Harry swats his hand away, but Ron has learned to drop it instantly. Curious, Harry eventually uncurls and reaches out for the fallen album, only to flip through the pages with a frown marring his face.

"I have no family." Harry says. "If I had they would have come to visit."

"Oh, Harry..." And this is the hardest part she thinks. "Your parents are dead. They died protecting you."

"Then how come I can't remember them? How long ago did they die?" Harry asks quietly, tears welling in his eyes. "Why did they do it?"

"They loved you." Ron steps in, wrapping a comforting arm around Hermione. "And they still do. They died when you were one, Harry."

Harry frowns. This isn't the explanation he wants. He wants to know his parents are right outside the door, that they'll be in in a minute. But Hermione and Ron have already tried that route. They can't restrain Harry, and when he ultimately breaks through the wards, he realizes no one is there.

"Why aren't I dead?" he asks.

"Well, you see that scar on your head? The killing curse left that and spared you." Ron says.

Harry reaches up to touch it, like always.

"Why?"

"Well, they say it was luck." Hermione says.

"Not for my parents."

"No, not for your parents." Hermione echoes.

"Where is the castor who tried to kill me?" Harry wonders. "Do I have a wand too? Can I fight him?"

"Harry, violence is never the way." Hermione chides.

"But it works." Harry whispers hauntingly. "It works."

There aren't many allusions to what happened to him. Harry doesn't even know himself. But why he does say, strikes a nerve.

"The wizard is dead. You killed him, Harry."

"Are you lying?" Harry asks. He always needs to be sure before he lets himself feel any type of emotion.

"No! I wouldn't lie about that!" Ron insists, taking out the laminated Daily Prophet clipping from last year.

It shows a picture of Harry dueling a snake-faced man on the front, and then underneath, it shows the fatal spell flying towards the other as another jet of light hits Harry in the back.

"Where Is Our Savior Now?" Harry reads the title aloud. "After being hit in the back with an unknown curse, Harry Potter promptly went missing...But I'm here." Harry remarks slowly, coming to the same epiphany he always does. "How long?"

Ron clears his throat. "A year. That was at the end of fifth year. Now we're seventh years."

Harry contemplates this, mauls it over. Then he breaks.

"My memory's gone, isn't it? That spell in that battle wiped it clean. Do you come here every day? Do you have to explain this over and over?" Harry asks, voice cracking, tears streaming down his face. "Why? Do I always ask these questions? Is this all scripted?"

Hermione shifts uncomfortably. "Sometimes you say things differently. I'm so sorry Harry."

"So I cry everyday? You watch me break down? Is this fun for you?" Harry shouts accusingly. "Did you ever once think to tell me lies and let me believe there was hope?"

"Harry!" Ron cries, "This isn't ideal for anyone!" He shakily takes back the newspaper and the album and sticks them back in his bag. "I'm real sorry Harry, but we've got to get to class."

Harry nods forlornly. Time moves on. They move on. But Harry does not. He sits and sits and waits. He ages without memory.

"Goodbye Hermione, Ron. It was nice to meet you."

He has uttered these words countless times. Hermione cries and Ron leads her through the door.

Harry's next visitor isn't but ten minutes later. A plump, compassionate-looking witch bustles inside his ward and introduces herself as Poppy. He asks for her surname, but she just laughs and says "Formalities have no use here."

Harry takes an immediate liking to this witch, but then she begins to poke and prod him, to make sure his body is healing up nicely. She must be a type of doctor, he thinks as she pokes a particularly painful wound.

"If you do this every day," Harry wonders, "shouldn't I be healed already?"

Poppy shakes her head dismally. "Not these kinds of wounds. They take a bit longer."

"How long?" Harry questions. He knows it must be longer than a year. That these are curse scars, battle scars, that won't ever go away.

"As long as it takes for us to find a cure." she says impassively. "Now, take these potions. One's a Calming Drought. One is for recovery. One's a Dreamless Sleep."

Harry watches her uncork the vials with accuracy. She must have done this a million times already, but for Harry, he marvels in the way her wrist twists, at the clink of the glasses, full to the brim with foul smelling potions. He wonders how much he's damaged, then shrugs and takes the vials from Poppy's grip.

He downs them all in one go, not even caring as night overtakes him. Poppy sighs, waves her wand and dims the lights.

"Good night, Harry." she whispers.

He has no measure of time to gauge how long he has been out. His thoughts whirl around inside him, smiling faces, laughter, hissing, crying. There are other things too, fights, the sound of spells whizzing past and smacking into an opponent, the sound of Hogwarts' wards falling. He nearly remembers getting hit in the back as he shouts the Death Curse, but the memory recedes, like the tide.

He finds himself resurfacing back into the little white ward, the lights still dimmed, the room still empty. He runs the meeting that morning over and over in his mind, of the girl named Hermione, and the awkward red head boy named Ron. He wonders if they could ever have been his friends, and he wonders what would have happened if he had never been cursed.

Harry tries to get out of bed and stretch, but as soon as the thought occurs to him, there is another knock at his door. Harry gives a tentative "You can come in." because he thinks he hardly has a choice. The door opens very smoothly, and a polished black shoe steps into his room, followed by a handsome man in dark emerald robes. His brown hair is pulled tightly in a ponytail behind his head, giving him the appearance of having no hair at all. He has cold black eyes and a pale white skin, but his smile is warm. Harry finds himself smiling back. The man feels familiar and he hangs on to the feeling for all it is worth.

"Hello Harry." he says elegantly. "I'm the Headmaster of Hogwarts, Thomas."

Harry thinks he should know what Hogwarts is, but he doesn't. It must be a school though, because this is the headmaster, and his friends had left to "go to class."

"Hello." Harry says in an effort to be polite.

The tall man walks closer to him, hands behind his back, eyes open and calculating.

"How are you feeling? Poppy said you had a pretty nasty fall when the curse hit you...Is your scar bothering you at all?"

"My scar?" Harry echoes, hand flying up to touch it again. He notices a slight tingling in his forehead, as if someone had sliced shallowly with a blade. "No, nothing." Harry murmurs.

Suddenly the man turns on him, nostrils flaring, and hand coming around to smack him- but it stops.

"Don't. Lie. To. Me. I know everything about you, more than anybody in this world, including yourself."

The statement chills Harry to the bone, but before he can force out an apology, the man smooths back into his former seamless self.

"I only mean that recovery is a joint effort." Thomas says calmly. "You need to tell me how you feel so that we can better treat you."

Harry takes a deep breath to steady himself. An odd feeling begins to pool in his stomach and he doesn't know what it is. The man's piercing black eyes are upon him, feasting on his soul, and something feels as if it slammed itself into a wall inside him. Thomas frowns.

"I need you to relax. Will you do that for me?" he asks. "Tell me about your day so far, you must have questions."

Harry shifts on the bed, running his fingers on the hem of the white sheets.

"What curse was I hit with?"

"Hmm, a rare type of memory charm." Thomas informs him, "A bit like a timed obliviate. We don't have a name for it because no one has ever used it before."

"Is there a cure?" Harry asks with trepidation.

"Perhaps. But only if you cooperate. Now, can you remember anything at all of the Final Battle?"

Harry frowns. "There were a lot of deaths. Running. Spells shooting everywhere...who was the man I was trying to kill on the cover of the Daily Prophet?"

Thomas smiles, "They call him You-Know-Who, the Dark Lord."

"You-Know-Who?" Harry echoes. "But doesn't he have a name?"

"He has many names, Harry, just as I am the headmaster and all the Minister of Magic. But do you remember anything like emotions? How did your magic react when you were near him?"

Harry stills. The energy in his scar thrums just a little bit louder, but he doesn't understand.

"Why?" he asks. "I don't understand. I was shot in the back, not-"

"Some say you had the power the Dark Lord knew not." Thomas says almost indifferently. "As you were shouting the Killing curse at You-Know-Who, that power might have coursed within you, reacting oddly with the spell aimed at your back."

"Oh...well, I never heard of that. At least, sorry, I just don't remember."

"That's okay, Harry. Here, how about you just shut your eyes and try and picture it in your mind."

"Er, alright." Harry complies, but all he sees is the faint red of the back of his lids. "I don't see anything."

"Just imagine it. It's in your mind somewhere." Thomas says with a hint of frustration.

Harry tries again. He blocks out the image of Thomas' onyx eyes, the sharp pinching of his scar, the ache in his mind where something crashed against it. He can't make anything out but indistinct sounds, but he gets the odd impression that Hermione and Ron had tried to save him. He doesn't know when, but then ruby red eyes gleam out from the darkness, set on a papery face without a nose. It reminds him of Thomas' eyes, but he knows no more.

"I'm sorry." Harry mumbles blankly, cracking open his emerald eyes.

Thomas sighs out. "We'll simply try again tomorrow."

And then he's gone.

His next visitor brings him dinner, some chicken soup with pumpkin juice. She has gray hair and a tired face, but overall seems kind.

"How are you, Harry?" she asks, voice soft. "You can call me Minerva."

"Minerva?" Harry repeats. The day has been long and these faces stir something in his heart, but he cannot name them.

"I was your head of house." she says, "But more importantly, I knew your parents."

"They're dead." Harry says.

"Yes, they are. But you're alive."

"Not really." Harry tells her, emerald eyes welling with tears. "C-can I have some parchment?"

"Yes, Harry." The old woman reaches inside her robes for a little bound notebook. She seems sad as she holds it out, her hand shakes.

"I've asked for this before, haven't I?" Harry wonders.

"This is your fifth book." Minerva tells him. "You stopped writing after a while. Now you just read."

It makes sense, Harry thinks. The length of the book changes every day, while everything else stays static. He opens the book gently, surprised to find his own cramped handwriting staring back at him. He runs his fingers over the lines, never remembering writing any of it.

"Have you ever read it?" Harry asks her.

"Once," she admits. "I don't keep the book, Prof- er, Thomas does."

The thought strikes Harry as odd. Why would Thomas need to see his journal?

"Will you tell me how it ends?" he asks, giving her back the book.

She takes it uncertainly, fumbling for her reading glasses.

"What's wrong?" Harry asks.

"You've never asked me that before."

The room is silent.

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**A/N- Please Review! It's my first time writing something of this nature and I could use the feedback! Thank you!**


	2. Part 2

**A/N- This is actually going to be a three-shot since it just got so long! Thanks for the feedback and reviews!**

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**Part 2: Tabula Rasa**

There is silence.

_"There's a woman called Minerva sitting next to me, watching me read what I've supposedly already written. It's been an odd day. It all began with two people called Hermione and Ron. They used to be my friends, I think, but I can't recall. Hermione has bushy brown hair and Ron has red hair and freckles. I don't know why I'm writing this down. If everything is always the same, then by the time I read this, I would already have known what Hermione and Ron look like. They gave me a photo album with pictures of my parents who apparently died when I was one, from a person called You-Know-Who. I wish I knew why. A woman named Poppy came in next, but it was a quick visit. She only gave me potions, one a Dreamless Sleep. I'm not sure how long I was out, but the next person to visit was the strangest of all. His name was Thomas and I felt as if we've met before, which is actually very probable. He had pale skin and brown hair, and the darkest eyes I've ever seen. He asked me about You-Know-Who and the power I supposedly have, but I'm not anything special. I have nothing at all. And very last, Minerva came to give me this. Apparently it's my fifth book._

_There's a woman next to me with gray hairs. She's introduced herself as Minerva-isn't that the Roman equivalent of Athena? She told me I've already written in this, but she refuses to give me the book, on Thomas' orders she says. I wonder why Thomas did that, anyway, you probably won't remember Thomas tomorrow, so I might as well write that he's the headmaster and Minister of Magic of this school-Hogwarts. I vaguely remember this school, just as I vaguely remember a lot of things. It's a shame that it doesn't add up into anything useful. This morning I met Hermione, a brown haired witch, and Ron, a boy with ginger hair and freckles. I think they used to be my friends, but I' not much of a friend now, am I? Poppy, a plump witch, gave me potions today. The last one made me sleep, and then the next visitor was Thomas- the same one who ordered Minerva not to give me the first entry of this book. I suppose he's curious, just like me, if I'll write the same thing word from word. _

_No. Just no. No. No. No. Minerva gave me my first two entries of this book to read. They're practically the same. My days are practically the same. This cannot be happening...No. No. No. No. No. The same people: Hermione Ron, Poppy, Thomas, Minerva. I think I'm going to throw up._

_Today I woke up in a white ward, but no one came for the longest time. After a while, there was a knock and two people called Hermione and Ron came in. They said they were my friends, but I don't know about that. They say my parents were killed when I was one, and Thomas later told me I only survived because I had a superpower or something. After Hermione and Ron left to get to class, Poppy, probably a nurse, came in with three potions. I don't remember what happened after that, but when I woke up, Thomas was in my room, staring at me with piercing onyx eyes. Of course, I didn't know who he was, but he seemed to know a lot about me. I felt...odd after meeting him, but then he just got up and left suddenly. I don't know. I suppose I should just get over it since I'll just forget it anyway. The last visitor was Minerva, an older witch with grey hair. She says she knew my parents. She's the one to give me this quill and parchment, but she won't let me read my other entries. I bet they're all the same._

_No._

_No._

_No._

_For the past few days, I've been able to read my previous entries. I think I'm going to vomit._

_No._

_Minerva sits on a chair in the corner of my ward. She just handed me this book and told me to write. I'm thankful. Perhaps if I have enough entries I'll be able to string together some sort of coherent life? Hermione and Ron- two of my past friends- told me I got hit with a memory curse during the final battle. It must be true, or else it's the greatest joke in the whole wide world. They also gave me a photo album with pictures of my parents. I don't remember them at all, but then again, I wouldn't even if this hadn't happened to me. You-Know-Who killed them when I was one. I think we cried together, but I'm not sure. I was thinking a lot, about time in general. After they left to go to class, Poppy came in, a plump nurse-like witch. She gave me three potions to help heal me, but I'm not sure why I'm even sore in the first place...One of the potions was a sleep potion, and when I woke again, I was all alone. I had time to explore the ward, but it's practically a prison. I can't get out, there's no windows, no unlocked doors. Thomas, the headmaster, found me looking around. He asked me why I wanted to leave, if someone had said something to me. I had no answer. He made some sort of comment about me really not knowing anything useful, but I think I imagined that. He's really polite, but then again, he's the minister, so he has to be. He asked me about myself. What my strengths were what I thought I could improve on. He's trying to find a cure, I think. Which brings me back to now."_

Minerva clears her throat. Tears hang off the edge of her nose, and run down her cheeks.

* * *

"I-I can't." Minerva whimpers. "Oh, no, no, no! Don't make me read any more."

Harry nods quietly, tears running down his face. His existence is in that book. His days are numbered by the pages he can't remember writing. But it's all the same. His throat constricts and the older witch conjures him a tissue-box.

"Please forgive me, Harry. Please. Please?"

Harry stares at her, not comprehending.

"Minerva? Are you alright?"

"NO!" the witch scrambles off the chair and stares up at the ceiling, right above the door. "I'm sorry, Harry, for everything present, past, and future. But you must understand I had no choice."

_What choice? What things? _

"But I did and I found it today. I wasn't supposed to let you read it at all. Ever."

There are footsteps coming heavy from the hall. They pound closer and closer, a rank of twenty guards.

"Do not mourn for me." Minerva whispers, lips barely parted. "Take your potions. Do not think. Please..."

"Minerva-I-what-?" Harry gets to his feet, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

"And my name's Narcissa. Draco's mother." the woman says. "Don't try and run."

The door blasts open in a burst of purple light. There are hooded figures, black robes, and silver masks. The name Narcissa strikes a chord. So does Draco. Harry can imagine it: blonde hair, silver eyes. Prat. Git. Spoiled. Defector. But there isn't time to process. The hooded figures sweep into the room, surrounding them, wands pointed out in front. They are doomed.

"Narcissa?" one of the figures asks. "Why? Why would you do anything so stupid?"

"I'm so sorry." she sobs.

Harry looks between them, wondering why his voice sounds so familiar. He imagines an aristocratic face with arching eyebrows and a snake-headed cane.

"K-kill me." Narcissa demands. The polyjuice is wearing off. Harry watches with amazement as the grey hair lengthens to a beautiful blonde, and the wrinkles turn smooth and her skin turns pale from ghostly white.

"Narcissa..."

"We can obliviate her, Lucius." one of the other figures call. "Hasn't she tried this before?"

"Once." Lucius says. "Once."

Realization dawns on her face just as Lucius levels his wand at her.

"No! Stop!" Harry screams, throwing himself in front of her.

"Get out of the way, Potter!" Lucius growls, making to grab the teen. "Always have to play hero, now don't you?"

The words are so twisted, so potent, so real. But they don't hold any significance for him.

"Please?" Harry begs. "Please?" He knows what it's like to have his memories torn from him. He knows what it's like to be floating in a void of insincere words. And he would do anything to spare another of that fate.

"She's a Death Eater, don't you get it Potter?" another wizard yells.

"No, wait. We can use this." Lucius mutters. He pushes back his sleeve and pushes an ugly black mark on his arm. A fire sparks in Harry's head, and he clutches his scar for all its worth. All the while, Narcissa is still, unable to react to anybody.

And then the door opens.

Quick as a flash, Narcissa's has him in her arms. Wand pointed at his throat, black hair taut in her grasp.

Thomas walks in, a look of surprise on his perfect face.

"I'm surprised at you, Narcissa. Never thought you'd consort with the likes of him."

"Kill me and he dies." Narcissa growls. "An eye for an eye. You-You monster. You killed DRACO!"

"Narcissa, be reasonable!" Lucius calls, but his voice cracks at the end. He must realize the truth. There is no Draco.

"Ah! How very astute of you," Thomas leers. "But you wouldn't dare. Draco may not be here, but he is alive. If you don't let Lucius obliviate you, I will personally hunt down your son and break him slowly and completely."

Narcissa raises an eyebrow and smirks very softly.

"No!" Lucius shrieks.

But the wand is raised and the movement is so fast that no one can see it.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

And Narcissa falls to the ground.

"NO! NARCISSA!" Lucius screams. He rushes forward and brings her lips to his. He kisses her greedily, ice cold stone against ice cold love. "YOU!" He turns to Thomas. "I'LL KILL YOU!"

Harry watches as the Death Eaters close in. They take Lucius by the arms, and hold him gridlock. Thomas, their lord, frowns disdainfully at Lucius.

"It's up to you, Harry." Thomas says softly. "Should I kill him or should I obliviate him?"

Harry doesn't know which way is up and which way is down. He's alive. Narcissa is dead. And Lucius has defected. There's a man named Thomas in his room and he is looking at him to decide the fate of his previous enemy.

He falls to the ground, tears falling on Narcissa' hair. Lucius watches him mourn over her, unthinking. There is something like instinct as Harry reaches for Narcissa's fallen wand. He doesn't think as he points it at the man in the doorway. Nor does he think about which spell to use.

And then, he doesn't think at all.

* * *

The next day, Harry wakes up in a white ward when his friends, Hermione and Ron come in. They say they are his friends, but he can't be sure. They hand him a photo album of his parents and a little newspaper clipping of the Final Battle. They speak vaguely of the man in the photo, identifying him as the man who killed his parents.

"Why aren't I dead?" Harry asks with a frown.

"Well, you see that scar on your head? The killing curse left that and spared you." Ron says.

Harry reaches up to touch it, like always.

"Why?"

"Well, they say it was luck." Hermione says.

But Harry doesn't buy that.

"If I had luck, things I can't remember would not have happened to me."

There aren't many allusions to his past. Harry doesn't even know himself. But what he does say, strikes a nerve.

"You-Know-Who is dead. You killed him, Harry."

"Are you lying?" Harry asks blankly.

"No! I wouldn't lie about that!" Ron insists, pointing at the laminated Daily Prophet clipping from last year.

"Where Is Our Savior Now?" Harry reads the title aloud. "After being hit in the back with an unknown curse, Harry Potter promptly went missing...But I'm here." Harry remarks slowly, coming to the same epiphany he always does. "How long?"

Ron clears his throat. "A year. That was at the end of fifth year. Now we're seventh years."

But it feels much longer. He does not tell them of his thoughts. Something like fate is telling him not to. He doesn't understand it.

"My memory's gone, isn't it? That spell in that battle wiped it clean. Do you come here every day? Do you have to explain this over and over?" Harry asks, voice cracking, tears streaming down his face. "Why? Do I always ask these questions? Is this all scripted?"

Hermione shifts uncomfortably. "Today's a bit different."

"But I cry everyday? You watch me break down? Is this _fun_ for you?" Harry shouts accusingly.

"Harry!" Ron cries, "This isn't ideal for anyone!" He shakily takes back the newspaper and the album and sticks them back in his bag. "I'm real sorry Harry, but we've got to get to class."

Harry doesn't know why he hasn't noticed it before, but Ron's voice is hollow, and his mouth twitches into a smile as if he's not used to the gesture.

"Goodbye Hermione, Ron."

They scamper out. Harry leans back against the headboard when something jabs him in the back. He quickly sticks his hands under his pillow and extracts a sort of diary. He wonders when it was left there, and wonders who it is by, but when he opens the cover, he is surprised to see his own cramped handwriting.

He reads the first few entries and is horrified by what he reads. Everything is the same. Everything. But something strikes him as very odd...Everyday, Poppy gives him a potion. A sleeping potion.

Something stirs within him. A second chance, perhaps, but it's irrational. And yet, he feels a need to hide the book. He stows it under his pillow again, and waits patiently for Poppy to enter. She does so within minutes, carrying with her three foul smelling potions.

"One's a Calming Drought. One is for recovery. One is Dreamless Sleep."

He sees no way to escape ingesting it. Poppy watches him like a hawk. Instead of being fascinated by her hands, he stares up at her beady, intent eyes, wondering what she's thinking. He takes the first one slowly, then the second. He takes his time, and he watches her check her watch, a very ornate, heavy, masculine looking watch. A twinge of suspicion wrenches Harry's gut, but his face is already screwed up from the potion's fumes.

He figures it must be five minutes, and he is still finishing the second potion. A drop of sweat begins to form on Poppy's brow.

"I'm in a bit of a hurry." she says. "Just drink up and pleasant dreams."

She hurries out of the room, almost as if she's late.

Harry doesn't dwell on it. He hops out of bed and shoves the mattress over just a bit so that he can pour the third potion in the center of it. The white mattress soaks up the light blue liquid, and seems to dissipate on contact. He doesn't question it. Harry hops back on the bed and waits. This is new, and dangerous, and wonderful. He feels alive.

He shuts his emerald green eyes and pretends to be asleep. Perhaps it is silly, but he needs to know, and something is telling him to play along.

The door creaks open, much to Harry's surprise. There's a soft, gentle step, and then a stool is conjured and slid roughly across the floor. There is silence for many heartbeats. And then a very quiet voice begins to speak.

"Why did you do it?" The voice is deep and somber. "We had it planned. Yesterday, we were so close. Well, I've got it now. Now, seven hours too late."

Harry doesn't know who is speaking. He doesn't know what is being talked of...

"Harry, I never meant to hurt you...But it was the only way to save you."

Harry wants to shiver. He wants to shout. He doesn't know what's going on. He doesn't know what happened.

"Harry, I know you are awake."

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**A/N- PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW! Chapter 3 is done and reviews will make me update faster! Thanks!**


	3. Part 3

**A/N- This was desi****gned to be a one-shot, then a two-shot, then three-shot. This last chapter was incredibly difficult to write, and I cried. Please review at the end, for this is where I will end. Thank you for reading and enjoy!**

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**Tabula Rasa: CHAPTER 3**

And this jolts Harry to sit upright. He blinks his emerald eyes into the face of an old enemy, though he cannot recall above faint emotions. There is also a current of loyalty in there as well, and if this isn't odd enough, this man apparently steals into his room every day.

"Who are you?" Harry demands.

"I'm a man who has done you wrong." The man has long greasy hair and a great hooked nose. He appears to be shocked, but relieved, and just a little bit on edge.

"How?"

"It doesn't matter now." Snape tells him. "If you are to hate me, I would like you to do so with all your memories."

"I- You have my memories? I can get them back?"

"Be quiet, for Merlin's sake!" Snape hisses. "Tell me how you knew not to drink that potion. Now, preferably!"

"I, there's a book!" Harry blurts, even though there's no definite reason to trust this man. "It was under my pillow."

"So that witch was thinking after all."

"What witch? Who? Hermione?"

"Never mind." Snape snaps. "She served her purpose and it was her own fault she couldn't stick it out till the end."

"What? Did she die?"

"Does it matter? Look, Potter. If you did, indeed, read your journal, then you should know there's only so much time before Thomas comes in."

"But why's he the enemy? He's the headmaster!"

"And I suppose you believe everybody who tells you who they are?"

"Well, I-uh." Harry blushes. "Well, how do I know you're not lying too?"

"Because who would lie about being your enemy? What would that gain me if it weren't the truth?" Snape questions. "Compare that to your best friends, an old lady who knows your parents, a school nurse."

Harry chews on his lower lip. He doesn't quite get it. He's only been introduced to these people this morning.

"So...Ron? Hermione?" Harry whispers.

"They're not here. They're off, leading the resistance."

"Poppy?"

"She's fighting too."

"Minerva?"

"Dead."

"But they're here. Everyday..."

"Polyjuice." Snape says simply. "It lets them appear to be someone else."

"What about Thomas?" Harry asks desperately. "What about Thomas?"

Snape locks his eyes with his.

"He wants you dead."

"But I'm not!" Harry says.

"But you are." Snape raises an eyebrow. "You can hardly call this life, can you? You can't fight him. He keeps you as his prisoner."

"You're lying!" Harry protests.

"Even so." Snape tells him. "The resistance will be here in a few minutes, ideally within the time it takes for Thomas to show his face. We had originally planned to do it in two days, but there was an unexpected development yesterday. Another person discovered that their son was polyjuiced. In their selfishness, they decided to end their own life than save yours. You may wonder why I tell you this. Why I've never told you this before. It's because it's time. The Wizarding World has waited too long for the Dark Lord's reign to fall, and finally, I've been able to develop a cure. It would be pointless to delay when suspicion is at its peak."

Harry sputters incoherently, unable to truly comprehend how a complicated plan could have developed, in what he feels was a few hours.

"You are fated to kill him, Mr. Potter. It's a lot to ask, but surely another sacrifice won't make a difference."

And before Harry can ask another question, or senselessly open and close his mouth like a fish, Severus Snape disappears beneath a silver cloak. Not a moment too soon, for the door opens again and it is the Thomas from his description.

Pale skin, brown hair, black eyes. He appears to be calm, but Harry's scar begins to prick, and Harry recognizes it: This is the man who killed his parents. This is the You-Know-Who Ron had talked of, and the Thomas Snape had warned him of. Suddenly, this confident powerful individual is nothing but a monster. The smile he wears is hungry, not warm, and the way he moves is not graceful as much as it is predatory.

"Hello Harry." he says elegantly. "I'm the Headmaster of Hogwarts, Thomas."

Harry knows this all already. He knows that this is not merely a friendly introduction but a power play, that the friends he had been introduced to in the morning were nothing but hostages- and fake ones at that.

"Hello." Harry says, playing the part.

The tall man walks closer to him, hands behind his back, eyes gleaming and calculating.

"How are you feeling? Poppy said you had a pretty nasty fall when the curse hit you...Is your scar bothering you at all?"

There's a slight hesitation Thomas surely latches onto.

"Yes." Harry finally concedes. "It tingles a bit. But what does that have to do with the curse?"

"Well, some say you have the power the Dark Lord knows not. And if you were aiming to kill the Dark Lord, the power might have coursed through you and reacted with the curse."

The explanation is so terrible Harry doesn't see how he could have missed it before.

"Oh, I suppose." Harry nods. "But if the Dark Lord is dead, then why does it matter if I have something he doesn't. Many people have things others don't. Like black hair. Or glasses."

"I don't think you understand, Harry." Thomas tells him sweetly. "I'm trying to help you."

He takes a step closer and raises a finger to Harry's scar. He flinches back instinctually, but he can feel Thomas' eyes on him, and he wishes he hadn't reacted at all.

"I need you to relax, Harry. Can you do that for me? Shut your eyes and relax? Let everything go. Let everything down."

Harry doesn't want to leave himself vulnerable, but the alternative is instant death. It's not a difficult decision. Harry shuts his eyes.

Not long after, there is a force that slams against his brain. It is sharp and small, like a surgical knife meant for fine incisions. It slices along his conscience, ripping where it can, tearing where it can't. Finally, Harry can't take it anymore. With a cry, magic shoots from his core through his mind, effectively making the Minister stagger back.

Thomas growls, the sound coming from his throat in a feral sort of way. And then, suddenly, beyond all hope, there is a bang from the hallway. And another. And another. Thomas looks sharply at Harry before glaring at the door. Harry wonders if this is it, if this is the resistance. He wonders if this is truly the right thing to do, if these people will be better than the last. Finally, he wonders what Severus will do, where he is, and what will happen.

Thomas pushes back his sleeve and presses an ugly black mark on his left arm. Harry's scar flares up, but otherwise there is no change. Thomas tries again, and again, but nothing happens. There is no one left to call. More shouts resound from the hallways, louder bangs, crashes, and shouts. Harry could close his eyes and picture the battle of Hogwarts if he wanted, but he doesn't. He keeps them open and watches as Thomas regards him coolly. Harry doesn't know it, but Thomas is contemplating his life as a decision of two factors: To learn of the unknowable power. Or to risk letting his enemy escape. To kill. To spare. To kill. To wait. It will only take a few more hours for Harry to start again, anyway.

So the Dark Lord is utterly unprepared when Snape slips a wand into Harry's hand. He is utterly baffled when the wards are broken, and the little white door is knocked down to reveal a tall, red-haired man with freckles, and a brown-haired witch by his side. He nearly gapes as he sees them, alive and well, and healthy.

"Surrender!" Hermione shouts, brandishing her wand. She looks older, more mature. She has curves and she has wrinkles and she has spirit. She is so different from the crying damsel in his room every morning. She is so different Harry gapes.

"Avada-!"

"Ron, NO! We need to bring him to justice!"

"THIS _IS_ JUSTICE!" Ron yells. He is an older, more mature Ron as well. He has dark auburn hair and faint freckles on a handsome face. He has grown lean and tall, but his voice commands power. He has changed, or perhaps he has never been. Harry cannot recall.

Thomas looks between Harry, desperately clutching his wand, and the team of aurors behind Hermione and Ron.

"So it took you this long, did it?" Thomas mocks them in a honey-coated voice. "You've let your savior rot in this made-up reality for how long?"

"SHUT UP!" Hermione growls. "This is the end, Riddle. You can't win."

"But you can lose." Voldemort says, and points his wand at Harry. "It's your choice."

Some of the aurors back away, but some, like a certain blonde haired man, remain in front.

"You killed my mother!" Draco shouts. "You killed her!"

"No, Draco. She killed herself." Voldemort laughs, and it is high-pitched and cold. "She died for him."

"Don't fuck with him, Voldemort!" Hermione threatens. "Lower your wand!"

"Do you honestly think you can make demands of me?" Thomas laughs. "You're in as much as a scrape as I am!"

And it's true. Harry is on the other end of his wand, and Voldemort at theirs. It is essentially a gridlock, and confusion lurks beneath the stillness. And then, Draco lunges. He runs at Voldemort, teeth barred, hands extended. Reason has fled him a while ago, but losing his mother was the last straw.

In that moment, Harry aims his wand upwards at the man formerly or perhaps recently known as Thomas, and shouts the words always on the tip of his tongue.

_"Avada Kedavra."_

It is barely more than a whisper, but the curse strikes its target.

And Voldemort falls down dead.

TRTRTR

It is a quarter to midnight at the Burrow, where the tattered remnants of the Order gather around the fire. They, who are alive, speak of the lost years. They, being Lupin, Sirius, Tonks, Molly, Arthur, Bill, Fleur, Fred, George, Ginny, Kingsley...

Harry is 20 now. Hermione and Ron are engaged to be married.

Draco weeps in his room. Poppy weeps before them all, white-haired, and thinner than Harry remembers.

They all look at Harry as if they cannot believe it. They cannot believe he is alive and they can't believe he thinks he it is the day after the Final Battle. So much has changed. So much is the same.

They look to Snape for guidance, for he is the secret leader. He explains in full the conditions in which Harry had suffered. They suspected but did not know- they donated their hair after all. The story which Snape fed Voldemort was really quite remarkable. He told him that Ron and Hermione were dead, that he had harvested their scalps and grew their hair with potions. He said he would have to perform a de-aging spell on the luckless volunteers, usually lower ranking Death Eaters who had already learned the _Script._

The photo album Severus had provided the Dark Lord for use in the illusion was another sacrifice Harry had inadvertently made. Snape promises he will get it back, but Harry isn't sure he wants to see it again. He's seen it every day after all.

It is ten to midnight when Severus brings out the cure. He says there is one more confession he must make.

"The mind is a complicated mechanism." he says. "It is the source of our personality, which is built upon memories. There was and always was a horcrux living inside you. You were the seventh horcrux."

The entire room is silent. They all strain to hear, for Snape was as secretive as Dumbledore when it came to explanations.

"It is gone now. But for seventeen years it manifested itself into your soul because it influenced your actions which filled your memories. It was a part of you just as you are a part of you. There was no way to get it out except by killing you, which we didn't want to risk. Another option would have been to let the Dark Lord kill you, but this had an innumerable unpleasant outcomes. There was one other way to save you though...I cast the _Tabula Rasa_." Snape said quietly. A hush swept over the crowd. "There were many benefits to this choice as opposed to the others. One thing being that you didn't have to die. The other benefit was that the horcrux itself lost its hold on you. Every day, you did not just forget twenty-four hours. A part of you broke off, chipped, _died._ You began forgetting names, places, friends, family...everyone, including yourself. It loosened the horcrux from your soul...purging you, little by little. Without the memories, the horcrux became a floating factor again, no longer intertwined with your own personality. And then of course, the other benefit was that the Dark Lord did not feel the rush to kill you. He believed you had a power the prophecy alluded to, though Dumbledore believed it to refer to love. The Dark Lord always was obsessive. He acted the way Dumbledore planned with flying colors. He even devised a schedule which he believed would make you more amenable to him. The only drawback was that we had no idea how long it would take. The cure was still being developed, and then the actual rescue attempt had to be devised. And then of course, you had to perform the killing curse for the Horcrux to be ejected from your soul."

"Like a horcrux?" Hermione asked. "Except that Harry was splitting apart Voldemort's soul from his own soul?"

"But that's terrible!" Ginny protested.

All eyes were back on Harry. His face was rather pale, but whether that was from captivity or something else, like fear, no one was sure.

"So I ask you now." Severus said, speaking only to Harry. "This will not return your memories of the past three years. This will only restore what you've forgotten previously, from the Final Battle back, and of course, today. So I ask: Now or later?"

It is a minute to midnight. Harry doesn't know. These betrayals are by people he can't recall. And the tears these people shed are for someone Harry has forgotten.

He takes the potion from Snape and drinks.

He drinks as the Weasley clock chimes midnight.

TRTRTR

Harry wakes, dazed and confused, in a gold and scarlet room. He fumbles for his glasses on the nightstand and jams them on his face. Outside in the hall, Hermione squeezes Ron's hand and asks, "Are you ready?"

Ron shrugs. "I'll never be ready for this."

And slowly, very slowly, they push open the door, where Harry sits on his bed and smiles.

* * *

**A/N- Please Review**


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